


Jam on Toast

by Neonbat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Insecurity, Jealousy, John's cute little tummy, Kind of has a plot, M/M, Porn With Plot, Sherlock sticking his foot in his mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3910027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neonbat/pseuds/Neonbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John would never admit it, but staying confident around Sherlock was a hard thing to manage. Sherlock being a prat some times doesn't help either, and one small comment on his weight grates him to no end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jam on Toast

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so..Second attempt at a Johnlock Fanfiction. I have a favorite kink, and that is John's adorable little tummy, which gave me enough inspiration to write a whole fic about it. I might be obsessed.  
> Shhhhhh

Dark blonde hair clung to his forehead, plastered down by sweat from the five-mile run. John puffed hard, slouched against the wall in the landing with his head cradled in the crook of his arm. Dammit he really had gotten out of shape lately. He’d grown . . . doughy. Sure chasing after Sherlock made for great cardio, but high-intensity cases were few and far between. Clinic-life wasn’t exactly as strenuous as his soldiering days, and grabbing pints with Greg wasn’t doing him any favors. Of course he wasn’t the type to sit there and fawn over his appearance like a teenage girl, but it had only taken one comment from Sherlock to make him strap on trainers.

\--

Sherlock’s fingers ghosted over his abdomen, spindly digits slipping through the sparse hair on his chest, and down his sternum. John was lingering in the after-glow of a truly spectacular romp around, but, as usual, Sherlock had seemed to recover in record time. He was contented to sit and bask and let Sherlock do what he liked in the meantime. That was until those wicked fingers stopped over the skin under his navel, fingernails scraping gently.  
“You’ve gained three-point-one kilos in the past months.” The words had been said flippantly, the same tone Sherlock used when he was just spouting off information on automatic without care for the consequences.

Whatever lingering bliss still permeated his body dried up in an instant, and John’s lips curled into a vague frown (because, as a grown man, he did not pout).”Yes… well, Sarah does like to bring treats to the clinic- “A brief grimace passed over his pinked face as Sherlock’s index finger dug into the soft tissue with an abrupt quirk of his fingers. “Sherlock what the hel-” He stared down the length of his body where Sherlock’s multi-tonal eyes bore up into his with childish ferocity. Was he jealous? “Oh, come off it, you know she’s just nice. People can be nice just to be nice, Sherlock.” He had hoped that perhaps Sherlock would brush over the idea, but the narrowing of his serpentine eyes told John he was in for it.

“Nice? Hmm… Perhaps. As a doctor, I would think you would know the side effects these . . . treats, wreak on the human body.” John did, of course, but there was no stopping Sherlock now. “Twice as likely to have high blood pressure. Increased chance of stroke.” He was still tickling the small paunch of fat as he tore on. “For each kilogram of weight there is an added thirty-three percent increase in the chance of diabetes, to name only a few. Combined with your drinking habits, I would imagine those risks are even higher.” As if he had to ‘imagine’ anything about it, he was just saying it to be facetious. John could see it on his face.

  
He should just let it go. He should just roll his eyes and let Sherlock be jealous and catty. But he couldn’t. For some reason he wasn’t willing to analyze the bubble of irritation welled up in his chest into full-blown hurt and anger.  
“Well, if you’re so adverse.” He hissed in reply and began wiggling his smaller body out from under Sherlock, who had been draped over his lower half quite languidly until now. The taller man’s face flashed with a brief moment of surprise, as if he couldn’t fathom what had set his blogger off, but all too soon it schooled itself down into his usual aloof lines. Sherlock shifted, rolling over onto the other side of the bed without a word, which was a feat in itself.

\--

The realization that he could sympathize with Mycroft more than he desired was an uncomfortable one to say the least.

 

That had been two weeks ago. Two miserable, cardio-intensive weeks. John was rather proud of his ability to give Sherlock the cold shoulder so long for being a royal prat, even if the great sod had been doing his level best to be as quietly despondent as possible. In the past weeks, his flat mate had fluctuated from pathetic side-long glances across the room as he read the paper, to flatly ignoring John’s presence whenever he entered the room. From the sound of banging from the floor above, he figured Sherlock had swung into a ‘putting random body parts into the microwave’ mood. A mood that usually ended in John storming in and slapping whatever dismember item from Sherlock’s hand to be followed up with sanitation wipes all around. Not this time. This time, John straightened up, took a steadying breath, and marched his way up into the flat. With a mental pat on the back, he completely bypassed the horrific mess the kitchen was in, and headed for the bathroom to shower.

Sherlock was aware of his new exercising schedule, but so far the man had kept himself from commenting on it. A fact that John thought highly suspicious. Perhaps he had underestimated just how catty the curly-haired child could be when pressed.

Once showered, he stood in front of the bathroom scale, and eyed it with the same dubiousness he would give a sleeping viper. Sighing, he stepped up with a mental chastising for acting so ridiculous lately. Sherlock always said these little barbs of his, especially when jealous. He had commented on the peculiar shade of blonde John’s hair was before, in a cab. His hideous taste in sweaters on numerous occasions. Not to mention John’s taste in the telly. Why was this any different? Well, if he had to guess, it was because he couldn’t stand the idea of Sherlock not finding him attractive. It had been hard for him to be confident when opposite of the tall man, who was all feline lines and pornography-lips. He was able to pull of confidence with women, but with Sherlock? He felt exposed. He felt . . . plain. That flippant comment had just flared up the embers of his insecurities into a brush-fire.

Sucking up his momentary lapse into amateur psychology, he peered down at the scale, and the number that faced him made him make a soft ‘yes!’ into the steamy bathroom air. Only another kilo and a third to go before those ‘three-point-one-bloody-kilos’ were a memory. He stepped off the scale and smirked triumphantly into the mirror, only to make a squawk of surprise as Sherlock’s face stared back at him from doorframe.  
“Dammit Sherlock!” He scowled, disliking that Sherlock could sneak up on him so quietly, and for invading his privacy. Before two weeks ago Sherlock striding into the bathroom to talk to him while he showered wasn’t an uncommon thing, but he had started locking the door out of spite, something he must have forgotten to do in his self-congratulatory state.

A look passed over Sherlock’s angular face, a look that John couldn’t puzzle out if he tried. His lips parted to begin to banish the consulting-detective from the room, yet the words never came. Sherlock had stepped into the cramped bathroom, buffeting the hot air from the shower with the cool from the hallway, making goose-flesh rise up on John’s still-nude body.

For a moment, Sherlock just stood, staring. John’s lips clamped shut, and he felt his face heat up in a way it hadn’t since the first time they had slept together all those months ago. The hell was he looking at?! His jaw set into a tight line despite the blush, and his arms crossed firmly over his chest. He refused to act like this bothered him as much as it did. He wasn’t going to make a grab for his towel or robe and let Sherlock see just how far his words had burrowed themselves under his skin. Sherlock didn’t need any more proof that John was hopelessly besotted and hung on his every word.

“Sherlock-” He began once he found his voice, and the taller man seemed to snap out of thoughts had been circling around in that funny little brilliant brain of his.

“John-” Sherlock began right as John started to ask him what the hell he was doing. A small pout formed over his elegant lips, and the internal struggle that raged behind his pale face was visible as the dawn to John. “I . . . You’ve lost weight.” He finished, as if that was supposed to tell John what in this world that look was about.

“Yes? I thought that was the point?” The blonde sighed in irritation, holding his arms out in a petulant gesture for Sherlock to look. The saying ‘Fake it till you make it’ surfaced for an irritating moment in the doctor’s head.

The disgruntled frown didn’t budge from Sherlock’s lips. “Because . . . of what I said?” He ventured, eyes pinned to John’s torso with an intensity that did funny little things to the Doctor’s stomach.

John wanted to say ‘No’, just because he knew how pitiful that sounded, but he wouldn’t be that piteous even if it killed him. “So?” There, that was a much more adult answer.

Sherlock’s frown deepened to new levels, and his right hand came up to press against the nearly-flat planes of John’s lower stomach. His fingers flexed, and a flash of annoyance darkened his stormy eyes as his fingers didn’t sink as far as they did before. For some reason, that was unacceptable.

“Men of your age are generally susceptible to weight gain. It’s . . . normal.” The detective ground out, slowly, unable to stop the desperate flow of words even if he tried. ”Considering that your fight-or-flight response is often engaged during the job, the increased levels of cortisol that follows contribute to weight gain. Along with the lack of sleep and stress of your PTSD, it is a perfectly acceptable response of your body.” The words came tumbling out at a speed that John had a time keeping up with , and only when Sherlock’s lips clamped shut did the blonde’s brow quirk in question.

“Sherlock. What are you getting at?” The days of adding a running-route to his hours at the clinic and stalking behind Sherlock had taken it out of him. He just didn’t have the energy to put into translating that he normally would. Sherlock would just have to stop being so damn enigmatic for once and spit it out.

Another flex of fingers made John bristle, and another flutter of interest was summoned into his nether regions. The abrupt halt of an otherwise very active sex life along with the combined after effects of endorphins summoned up during his exercising had left him with a very unsatisfied libido of late.

The next moment Sherlock captured his lips in a kiss that almost rivaled the ferocity of their First, but instead of clumsy desperation, there was only possessive ardor. John found himself pressed back against the ugly wallpaper in an instance, pinned between the wall and Sherlock’s bent form. Sherlock bit, nipped, licked, and claimed every bit of his lips until the frustration John felt melted into the fast-growing pit of his arousal. He groaned as the dark-haired man’s hands explored his naked skin, as if mapping the slightly altered shape of his muscles in the absence of a little bit of adipose. Not to be left alone exposed, John stubbornly began to tug and pull at Sherlock’s robe until the taller yielded and let the flimsy fabric tumble to the floor. He could already fell the budding erection in Sherlock’s lounge-pants press against his stomach, and his own brush against Sherlock’s thigh. It was times like these that he cursed their height difference, as rutting against his lover was off the table unless they were laying down.

A breathy, “John.” uttered into his kiss-swollen lips sent a shiver down his spine. He looked up, seeing the ever-changing gaze of his detective burn into him in quiet desperation. With another kiss, they parted to stumble down the hall towards Sherlock’s bedroom, and John was pushed gracelessly back into the mattress.

Sherlock’s mission to etch John’s body into his brain was renewed, though instead of his fingers, he used his mouth. A faint corner of the young Holmes’s brain always enjoyed noting how he could make his ex-soldier fall apart under the ministrations of his tongue, until he was nothing but a needy, whimpering mess. The awkwardness of virginity had been paved over with the same studiousness that Sherlock gave to everything, and within weeks of their first time, John had learned that keeping up with his lover was going to be an adventure.

His lips paused briefly at John’s navel, and with a pointed look at his panting blogger, he bit, baring down hard enough to leave impressions of his teeth in the soft skin. John bucked with more intensity than he’d meant to, and a sound he would deny up and down later escaped him. Sherlock’s mouth explored on, dipping into the curve of his hips until he pressed wet kisses into the soft patch of flaxen hair nestled at the top of his straining prick. After what felt like an eternity, his lips finally found their way to his shaft. The look that came over Sherlock’s face when he gave head was something John was sorely tempted to record one of these days. His hooded eyes, the way his curved lips parted to allow him to take John’s cock into his mouth, and the sultry groan of satisfaction when the taste of the doctor permeated his mouth-. .It was a look John had been wholly unprepared for the first time Sherlock had decided to ‘Practice fellatio’, as he had so loving put it. The first time had ended embarrassingly quickly because of it, but luckily, John had applied his stubbornness with the same intensity of Sherlock’s determination.

“F-fuck, Sherlock.” He breathed, right hand combing through the mop of dark curls that bobbed up and down over his groin. John writhed, bucking up into the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth, something he had learned a month before that turned the taller man on. The desire to take all of John into him, and test the limits of his was the man’s bizarre explanation to that one, not that John argued.

Sherlock’s tongue dipped into his slit, sending a jolt up his spine that made his mind fuzz-out for a moment and another sound he definitely did not make escape him. Devilish fingers toyed with his balls in time with his tongue’s strokes, and for a delirious moment John wondered if Sherlock had figured out the formula to giving perfect head because Dammit.

Faintly, he became aware of a wet sound, and he took a moment from praying to the ceiling to peer down. Sherlock’s free hand had pushed down his pants so he could access his throbbing prick, and his hand was busy fisting the swollen length that glistened with a steady stream of pre-cum. Sherlock was actually stroking himself off while he had a mouth full of his cock.

John’s fingers gripped Sherlock’s hair tighter, and with a hiss, he pressed his lover’s head down to take in his full length. His body ceased up as Sherlock’s throat constricted about him, and he tumbled back into the sheets as he shot stream after stream into Sherlock’s mouth until the detective was all but straining to keep it from leaking past his parted lips. A moment later his lover shivered above him, and Sherlock mewled quiet groans around his cock as he came onto the sheets with frantic strokes of his hand.

Moments later they found themselves sprawled out on the bed, sharing filthy kisses and tangled up in each other’s limbs. It wasn’t until they began to calm down that John became aware of Sherlock softly stroking his stomach. He smirked, pressing a kiss into the tangle of curls at his right.

\--

“John.” John looked up from his computer hours later, brow raised as Sherlock thrust a plate under his nose. He had heard Sherlock rustling around in the kitchen, but he had chalked it up to another around of experiments he would clean up later. Even when a scent that smelled suspiciously good ghosted his nostrils he stayed put. The smell of charring body-parts and other strange bits had fooled him before.  
He peered onto the plate that Sherlock had so eagerly pushed at him, and a moment of confusion passed as he looked up at the detective, who had innocently taken to staring at the damask wallpaper.

“Jam on toast?” John inquired, a smile quirking his lips as he accepted the plate. It wasn’t until he took his first bite that Sherlock crossed the rug to sink down into his chair with a look that John would venture to call ‘satisfied’.

**Author's Note:**

> For more updates go to http://neonbat666.tumblr.com/


End file.
